


Technical Difficulties

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28687587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: Castiel hated Tech class.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	Technical Difficulties

Castiel hated Tech class.

“Dammit!” he hissed, recoiling from the soldering machine for what seemed like the hundredth time that period. 

“Again?” Anna looked up from her own station, an amused glimmer in her eye. “You’ve really got two left hands, huh.”

“It’s my glasses,” Castiel lied, plaintively studying his hand (which was littered with similar burns). The sting was swiftly fading already, but the damage to his ego—and the rise of his frustration—was endless. “They keep fogging up from the solder fumes.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Anna said.

Castiel sighed, and pushed his offending glasses up with his uninjured hand. He glanced at his circuit board, halfway done, and felt dread simmer up inside him, dark and heavy, at the thought of repeating the whole process again.

His hand throbbed with lingering phantom pains, his eyes stung after squinting at tiny, tiny coloured resistors and capacitors and wires for hours on end, and his brain was continuously beating against his skull for a good half of the period already.

“I’m going to take a break,” he declared, getting up from his stool. “Walk around and get some fresh air.”

Anna made a dubious sound. “You’ve got, what—a week to finish this? And you haven’t even started the framework yet.”

“I know that,” Castiel groaned, running a hand through his hair.

When he’d signed up for Tech class, he had a vision of cool robots and rockets and self-driving cars. Turns out, it was a lot less Bill Nye and a hell of a lot more of wrangling with outdated circuit-building software, desperately trying not to misplace expensive microscopic circuit parts in his mess of a binder, and getting high on solder fumes. (The label on the package read forty-percent lead. Castiel may be awful at Tech, but he was top of his class in Chemistry, and he knew that melting something that was made out of forty-percent lead and then inhaling a healthy dose of its fumes was probably not the healthiest thing to do.)

He should’ve just taken Graphic Design instead. Or Food and Nutrition. Or Fashion. Castiel was gay, he was practically born with a good sense of fashion. He could ace Fashion.

“Your funeral,” Anna said offhandedly, turning her attention back to her own circuit board, which was already completed and was in the process of being glued onto her racecar’s frame. As Castiel walked around the room, he began to register, with a growing sense of doom, that nearly everyone in the class, actually, had already completed their circuit boards.

He gritted his teeth. He hadn’t done worse in a class since Phys Ed. It wasn’t even like he _needed_ the mark, per se, not for any of his future majors, but it was a matter of pride at this point—and Castiel had that in spades. (In both ways.)

After completing a circuit around the room, Castiel returned to his station, picked up the soldering iron, and took a deep breath. He could do this.

After burning himself again in a matter of minutes, Castiel dropped his soldering iron on the table with a cheery clatter, stood up from his station, and marched over to the teacher at the front of the room.

“Mr. Henderson?” Castiel called out, tentatively. 

Mr. Henderson looked up from the book he was reading. “Hey, Castiel,” he said gruffly. “What’s up?”

Face heating up, Castiel darted his gaze away from the teacher and dropped his voice to a mumble. “I think I need some help,” he said. “With my project.”

“No worries,” came the easy reply. “What are you stuck on? Framework? Wiring? Do you need to go down to the woodshop?”

“No,” Castiel admitted. “Actually, I’m still on my circuit board.”

“Well, you’ve got a week,” Mr. Henderson said, as if Castiel didn’t know that, wasn’t painfully reminded with every passing second in this class. “So you better pick up your pace.”

“That’s the problem, Mr. Henderson.” Castiel chewed on his lip. “I can’t seem to get the hang of soldering.”

“Ah,” Mr. Henderson said, his eyebrows coming together.

“I keep burning myself,” Castiel added, raising his hands for evidence.

Mr. Henderson peered at them. “Two left hands?”

“You’re the second person to say that to me today,” Castiel said ruefully.

Mr. Henderson chuckled. “You want a tutor or something?”

“That would be great, actually.”

Mr. Henderson fixed Castiel with a curious look, before nodding and closing the book in his lap. “Here, how ‘bout this—you know where the autoshop is?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, remembering how the door on the other side of the room would open occasionally and trail in a cacophony of drilling and whirring and screeching from the autoshop downstairs.

“Go down there, and ask for Dean Winchester. He’ll be able to help you.”

“Dean Winchester?” Castiel echoed.

A nod. “He should be down there. Probably working on a car or something.”

“Why him?” Castiel said before he could think.

“Because he has a spare right now, and he’s working towards an apprenticeship, and he has eons more patience than me,” Mr. Henderson said.

“But,” Castiel started, a little loudly, and then trickled down into a quiet murmur at Mr. Henderson’s raised eyebrows. “Aren’t _you_ the teacher?”

Mr. Henderson grinned, and raised his book towards Castiel. “Can’t you see I’m busy here? Go on, shoo.”

Castiel eyed him dubiously for a moment, decided that the rumours about all the Tech teachers being more like supervisors or fifth-year students than anything were true, and then nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Mr. Henderson.”

Mr. Henderson grunted and turned a page in his novel.

A little disgruntled and a little curious at this _Dean Winchester_ figure, Castiel made his way towards the autoshop doors, and was immediately assaulted with a bombardment of high-pitched drilling noises. Hands flying up to cover his ears, he gingerly stepped down the metal-grate stairs. 

He’d never been down here before, he realized as he tried not to swivel his head and stare. Huge, complex machines were scattered across the room, with students all decked out in goggles and vests and gloves. In the corner, there was a welding centre that was draped over with dark blue fabric, occasionally spitting out a shower of sparks. Everyone was wearing headphones, and Castiel tried not to wince as he scouted out the teacher at his desk, feeling incredibly out-of-place.

“Hello,” he tried to say once he was standing at the desk. The teacher—a grizzled-looking man with a baseball cap—was also wearing a pair of headphones, and he raised a hand to uncup one of his ears.

“Come again?” he said roughly.

“I’m looking for Dean Winchester,” Castiel said, recalling the name. 

The man narrowed his eyes, and then took off his headphones entirely. “And who are you?”

“I’m Castiel,” Castiel said. 

“And why are you looking for Dean, Castiel?” 

“Um,” Castiel said, feeling like an ant under a microscope. “Mr. Henderson said he could help me with soldering. I was—having a little bit of trouble.”

There seemed to be a perpetual furrow in the teacher's eyebrows, even when he smiled. “Dean’s over by the mill,” he said.

“The what, sir?”

“Call me Bobby,” the teacher corrected. “And it’s over there.” Bobby jerked his chin towards the side of the room. Castiel followed, and spotted a tall figure working near a machine, flecks of wood flying all over him.

“Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Hold on,” Bobby said before he could leave. Castiel turned back around.

“You might have to tap his shoulder to get his attention,” Bobby explained. “Mill’s pretty loud, ‘specially with the headphones.”

“Okay,” Castiel agreed, and turned again to leave.

“One more thing.”

Castiel turned back around. He was a little dizzy now.

“You might wanna wait ‘til he’s done with whatever he’s doing,” Bobby said. “Don’t want him to lose a finger.”

Castiel looked at Bobby for a long time, desperately trying to decipher his poker face. Unsuccessful, he breathed out a quiet, slightly-frightened, “Alright,” before finally leaving without interruption. 

He heard Bobby laughing behind him and scowled to himself as he made his way towards Dean Winchester. He still waited for him to finish up with the mill, though, because even if Bobby had been joking, Castiel didn’t want to have anything to do with Dean’s fingers and the drill, which, from what he could make of it, was spinning so fast he couldn’t even distinguish it.

Castiel slowed his steps a few paces from Dean, then stopped, a little too far away and a little too close altogether. Maybe Dean be spooked at him standing too close—or maybe he looked insane, standing near no machines and wringing his hands like a lost toddler at a supermarket.

So Castiel bounced on his heels and pursed his lips and waited for what seemed like an hour before Dean finally reached for a switch and flicked it off, the drill slowing into stillness. Then, he tried for a tentative, “Hello?” only to be greeted with silence, Dean making no indication that he’d heard him.

Castiel held his breath and tapped Dean on the shoulder—very gently—very lightly.

Dean whirled around, and Castiel caught a faceful of freckles and tousled hair and wide, surprised, _green-_ green eyes, and had enough time to think _Goddamnit_ before Dean was speaking.

“Hi,” Dean said, sounding confused. He was wearing only a t-shirt, Castiel registered, covered with sawdust all over the front. He scanned Castiel up and down before settling on his eyes, and then he smiled, crookedly, and Castiel thought _Goddamnit_ again. “Can I help you?”

“Um,” Castiel said. “Yes. I.”

“Take your time,” Dean said, grinning openly, now.

Castiel kicked himself. “Mr. Henderson said you could help me with soldering,” he tumbled out in a single breath.

Dean tilted his head, not breaking his stare. “You’re in the Tech class upstairs?”

Castiel nodded, not trusting his voice enough not to break or crack or blurt out something equally embarrassing. 

“Cool. Gimme a sec to put this away.”

“Of course,” Castiel said. “Should I go upstairs and wait for you, or…”

“Nah, stay here. I’ll go up with you.” Dean unclamped the mill and twisted and turned until the wood piece he had been working on was leaning upright against the wall on a shelf and his headphones were safely stowed away. He had an easy, careless grace to him that was both enviable and much more attractive than it should’ve been.

Castiel was going to kill Mr. Henderson, he decided. 

“So what kinda trouble are you having?” Dean asked as they made their way up the stairs.

“Just—coordination, I guess,” Castiel mumbled, ducking his head.

“Huh,” Dean said. “Well, let’s see what you can do, and then I’ll give you some tips.” He held the door open for Castiel as they walked back into the room, and Castiel saw Anna raise her head to greet them, saw her eyes widen and her cheeks flush at Dean.

“Hello,” Anna said, not even bothering to hide her interest, which was practically dripping from her voice. “And who are you?”

“Dean Winchester, at your service,” Dean said easily. “I heard this guy here needed some help.”

“Ah,” Anna said, turning her attention to Castiel now, with a look Castiel balked at. “Castiel _is_ having quite some trouble with his soldering.”

“Just a little bit,” Castiel defended.

“You burned yourself three times already,” Anna retorted.

Dean whistled lowly, and then Anna added, _“Today,”_ and he whistled again.

“This is my first time soldering,” Castiel tried weakly.

“C’mon, then,” Dean said, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

Castiel prayed silently, and then sat down on his stool. He forced himself not to move—not even a twitch—not even to _look—_ when he felt Dean settle in mere inches to his right. He picked up his soldering iron, waiting for it to heat up again.

“Hold it closer to the tip,” Dean said, and without the distractions of the drilling-whirring-screeching from the autoshop, his voice rumbled close to Castiel’s ear, and Castiel prayed harder.

He shifted his grip, and Dean said, “Good,” and Castiel thought _Oh God_ but he wasn’t praying anymore.

Castiel grabbed the solder wire with his left hand. Holding it close to a resistor, Castiel touched the solder to one of the free ends, and then moved in with the iron.

“Slower,” Dean said, somehow even closer than he’d been before, and Castiel’s hand twitched and a small, melted orb of the solder dripped down onto a blank, useless patch on his circuit board, missing the resistor entirely.

“Shit,” Castiel said.

“No worries,” Dean said, and all of a sudden his hand was right there, thumb swiping away the drop of molten metal like it was water.

“Dean!” Castiel said with a flare of worry.

“Hey, don’t worry, sweetheart,” Dean said, “I’m used to it. Doesn’t even sting.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, and did Dean actually call him that or was it the solder fumes?

“Try again,” Dean suggested. “Hold the wire closer to the resistor this time.”

“‘Kay,” Castiel managed, and bent down again, his tongue sticking out a little at the corners as he concentrated.

“Nuh-uh,” Dean said, before Castiel could even start. “Move the wire even closer. Like that—yeah, good. Go.”

Castiel went. The solder puddled in a perfectly-round, shiny dewdrop over half the resistor. He cursed, and Dean laughed.

“Right, I think I see your problem,” he said. “Gimme the solder for a sec.”

Castiel did, and watched Dean hold it up in the air, squinting as he spun it around. He let out a satisfied noise.

“You’re holding the iron at the wrong angle,” Dean explained. “There’s a sweet spot for all of ‘em, you just gotta find it. Spin it around a little while soldering, you’ll see.” He held it out to Castiel, who took it dubiously. “Hold it like that—yeah—see, that’s the wrong angle.”

Castiel twisted the iron in his fingers.

“More,” Dean said.

Castiel twisted it more.

“Almost,” Dean said, just whispering, now.

Castiel twisted it more, and his fingers suddenly flared up in a cramp and the soldering iron flipped straight towards his left thumb, and he thought _Not again_ and braced himself for the sting—only for another pair of hands to come up and clasp over his own, firmly steadying the iron.

“Woah,” Dean said, huffing out a laugh. “What was that?”

“Hand cramp,” Castiel said. “I’ve been doing this for forty-five minutes, give me a break.”

Dean laughed again, ruffled Castiel's hair and tickling the shell of his ear. “Alright, let’s try this, then,” he said.

“Try what?” Castiel said.

“Watch,” Dean murmured, and he wasn’t taking his hands off of Castiel. Actually, he was tightening his grip, shifting his hands so that they were completely encasing Castiel’s, palms calloused and warm. He began to move, guiding the wire and the iron closer together with both their hands.

“It’s easy once you get the hang of it,” he said. “See, just turn it until you find the right angle— _there._ That’s perfect. See how it melts smoothly? That’s what you want. Now, you gotta keep it quick so it doesn’t clump up all over the place—like that. See? Easy as pie. Got it?”

“Not really,” Castiel said, because he didn’t even remember what the hell Dean was saying back there. 

Dean sighed, warm against Castiel’s cheek.

“Just for you, I’ll do it again,” he said, and his voice was warm, teasing. “See—that’s the sweet spot. Hold it against the wire for just a sec—move it away. Just like that. Got it?”

“No,” Castiel said.

“You’re killin’ me, Cas,” Dean said, and there was a smile in his voice, now, one that matched Castiel’s. “Alright, one more time.”

He ran his thumb down Castiel’s hand, tracing down to his wrist, before readjusting his grip and diving back in. “Right there, hold it against the wire, move it away. Easy-peasy. Got it?”

He was so close. Castiel could turn his head just a little, and his lips would touch his ear.

“I don’t think I do,” Castiel said.

“Fuck,” he heard Dean mumble, and then he said, “Alright, one last time. You ready?”

“More than I’ll ever be,” Castiel said.

“Cool,” Dean said. “Hey, look at me for a sec?”

Castiel turned his head to look at Dean, and Dean kissed him. Very quickly. Just a shy, pink press of lips before quietly drawing back.

“Good?” Dean said, watching Castiel carefully.

Castiel swallowed. “Good,” he said. 

“Awesome,” Dean said, and then kissed him again. A little braver, this time, and Castiel tilted his head to make it easier, and felt Dean smile against his mouth.

“Dammit,” Castiel heard Anna swear from across the workbench. “Why are all the hot ones gay?”

“I’m bi, actually,” Dean said, pulling back to respond.

“So I still have a chance?” Anna said.

“Not at all,” Dean said, eyes flicking back towards Castiel. “Sorry.”

Anna rolled her eyes. Castiel felt woozy, like he was maybe going to throw up a little, but in the good way, which was rather disconcerting. Maybe it was all the solder fumes. Maybe it was just the kissing.

“You’re going to ace this course,” Dean said.

“Am I?” 

“Oh, yeah. I’ll build you such a kickass car, it’ll knock the whole class outta the ballpark.”

“That’s cheating,” Castiel protested half-heartedly.

“In that case, I guess I’ll just have to teach it all to you.”

“I suppose so.” 

“I think this strategy is working pretty well so far.” Dean squeezed Castiel’s hands, which were still holding onto the (long-forgotten) soldering tools. “Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Castiel said. “It’s a very effective technique.”

“Never fails,” Dean agreed, and swooped in to kiss Castiel again.

He smelled like metal and woodchips and tasted a little like solder, and maybe Castiel enjoyed Tech class after all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you couldn't tell by now, this was hugely inspired by my own experiences with soldering. If you're unfamiliar, take it from me that the fumes are absolutely awful, haha.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! :)


End file.
